


Animal

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Gag, Light Dom/sub, M/M, One Shot, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: Smut. Pure and simple.I wanted my boys to have some fun.





	Animal

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I just can't stop.
> 
> There's not much to say about this, except, in my first Vandermorgan fic I included the line "That time Dutch fucked him in his tent while Molly waited outside"
> 
> This is that time.
> 
> I enjoyed this. And the whole...bandana thing...
> 
> I’m still ill so there may be mistakes I haven’t caught. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are a joy :)
> 
> Sorry for spamming you all with my weird ideas!
> 
> Bye now.

He’s fucking him from behind. Hand wrapped around his throat. Teeth in the back of his neck. Like an animal. 

Dirty and hot and hard and right. 

And Arthur knows, he knows he’s supposed to keep his voice in. 

Because they’ll hear. 

They’re so close after all, just outside the tent. He can hear them, her, laughing as they set down to an evening meal. 

And he’s here. 

On his knees. 

With Dutch. 

Where he should be. 

He groans, hangs his head as Dutch thrusts into him, hard sharp pain and too much pleasure all in one. He grits his teeth, fists his hands in the worn covers on the pallet. 

Dutch’s hands on his hips, digging bruises in his skin. 

So fucking strong. 

He thinks he might die.

Suddenly thinks it. 

Can you die from pleasure?

“You alright Arthur?”

No, please don’t ask that. Not in that voice. Not when...

He gasps an answer. 

“Is it too much?”

No. 

Yes. 

He pushes back as much as he can, as much as he’s able to when he’s pinned and fucked and lost. 

“Am I too much?”

Yes. 

He groans again and it’s louder this time and he knows he shouldn’t, knows it could stop all this but the edge is rushing close to him and he hasn’t even touched himself yet. 

But Dutch’s hands

Dutch’s body

Dutch’s voice and scent and lips and teeth. 

And he can hear them still, footsteps close to the tent. If they just turn, look through the gap they’ll see it. See them. 

Filthy. 

Wanton. 

“Ah goddamn...” it comes out before he knows it. His voice louder than he meant. 

Dutch doesn’t stop. 

Fucking up into him as he chases his orgasm. Skin sticky. Sweat pooling. He wishes he could turn his head and see. 

“Please...fuck...”

Dutch doesn’t stop even as he shoves his fingers into Arthur’s mouth, yanks his head back until they’re cheek to cheek. 

“Quiet down.”

“I can’t.”

“Or I will quiet you down.” God, my God. 

“Dutch, I…”

A hard thrust. 

Oh. 

He’s enjoying this. 

Bastard. 

And then, 

Cloth. 

Shoved into his mouth from god knows where, held tight by Dutch’s hand over it. 

Silencing him. 

And it tastes of him. 

That thought pushes through his clouded, blissed out brain. 

It tastes of him. 

The bandana he wears, always wears, red checked, incongruous and so very Dutch. 

Arthur screams into it. 

Hips canting now. 

So close. 

Dutch’s laugh in his ear. 

His wicked low moan. 

And heat, deep deep inside. Deeper than he thought possible. 

Fingers on the small of his back, slipping down to press inside. 

Empty and leaking. 

And Arthur thinks he’ll fall. 

Except Dutch is there to hold him up, breathing ragged in his ears. Holding him hard until he comes. 

The bandana wet with saliva. Tears. 

God. 

“Get dressed.”

Dutch is moving, tugging on his pants and pushing the hair from his eyes. Arthur stands on shaky legs, come dripping down his thighs to the floor of the tent. 

Dutch smiles at that and hands him his jeans. 

So. 

Sometimes he likes it. When he wears the evidence of his desires on him. 

Even though only he knows. 

Arthur does as he’s told, pulls on his jeans and buttons his shirt up, fingers fumbling from the aftershocks as Dutch reaches past him to the bed, picking up the bandana. 

Smiles wicked. 

And wraps it around his neck. 

Settles it there like always. 

Leans forward and kisses Arthur, sweet and soft and so jarring considering what he’d just done. 

What they’d just become. 

“You did well, my boy.”

Arthur takes it. Holds the praise close even as he waves it away. 

Takes the kiss and the bite and breathes deep as Dutch exits the tent, calling out loud and laughing and,

And Arthur stumbles. Grips to the edge of the table to hold himself up, steadies himself. 

The burn and the bruise and the pain of it an aching reminder of everything he wants. 

Breathes deep and long. Puts his game face on. And exits the tent.


End file.
